SILVER

Outside a public house on the corner of Wardour Street, two new-born street flowers discreetly offered themselves. Beauregard recognised their silent protector as the dacoit from Limehouse, tattoos covered by a long velvet coat. Wherever he went in the city, in the world, he could never escape the webs of the shadow people. The dacoit gave no sign of noticing him as he passed, but somehow the girls knew not to bother him.

The address was in D'Arblay Street, an unobtrusive shop-front between a cabinet-maker's and a jeweller's. The cabinet-maker's had a selection of caskets, from plain plank boxes to gorgeously-finished items suitable for a Pharaoh's sarcophagus. A new-born couple cooed over an especially fine coffin, large enough for a family and ostentatious enough to cow a provincial alderman's wife into a fit of silent envy. The other premises displayed an array of jewel clusters and rings in the shapes or insignia of bats, skulls, eyes, scarabs, daggers, wolfsheads, or spiders; trinkets favoured by that type of new-born who styled themselves Gothick. Others called them murgatroyds, after the family in Ruddigore, the Savoy Opera of last year that so successfully lampooned the breed.

The denizens of Soho were more eccentric than their desperate cousins in Whitechapel. Murgatroyds concerned themselves mainly with ornament. Many of the women emerging as the sun set were foreign; French or Spanish, even Chinese. They favoured shroud-like dresses, thick cobweb veils, scarlet lips and nails, waist-length coils of glossy black hair. Their beaux followed the fashions set by Lord Ruthven; high-waisted, immodestly tight trews; floppy Georgian cuffs; ruffle-fronted shirts in scarlet or black; ribboned pompadours with artificial white lightning-streaks. Quite a few vampires, especially the elders, regarded those who creep through graveyard shadows in batwing capes and fingerless black gloves as an Edinburgh gentleman might look upon a Yankee with a single Scots grandparent who swathes himself in kilts and tartan sashes, prefaces every remark with quotes from Burns or Scott and affects a fondness for bagpipes and haggis. 'Basingstoke,' muttered Beauregard, invoking the Gilbertian magic word supposed to render the most gloom-besotted murgatroyd a meek suburban mediocrity.

He walked to Fox Malleson's establishment and entered. The shop was empty, all the counters and shelves taken down. The window was painted over green. A vampire tough sat, eternally vigilant, by the door leading to the works. Beauregard presented the new-born with his card. The vampire stood, considered for a moment, and pushed open the door, nodding for him to enter. The room beyond was full of opened tea-chests, in which were packed, amid quantities of straw, an assortment of silverware: tea and coffee pots, dinner services, cricket cups, cream jugs. Heaped on trays were the remains of rings and necklaces, gems prised out and gone. A heavy ring-base caught his attention, the gouged-out hollow at its centre like an empty eye-socket. He wondered if Fox Malleson were in partnership with the jeweller next door.

'Mr B, welcome,' said the short, old man who emerged from behind a curtain. Gregory Fox Malleson had so many chins that there seemed to be nothing between his mouth and collar but rolls of jelly. He had a good-humoured, kindly look, and wore a dirty apron, black silk sheaths over his sleeves and green-tinted protective goggles shifted up on to his forehead.

'It is always a pleasure to see one of the gentlemen from the Diogenes Club.'

He was warm. As a silversmith, he could hardly be anything else. The new-born outside would not dare to venture into the interior of Fox Malleson's works. The silver particles in the air might get into his lungs and condemn him to lingering death.

'I think you'll be pleased with what we've done for you. Come, come, this way, this way...'

He drew aside the curtain and admitted Beauregard into the workrooms. A bed of hot coals burned forever in a smithy, pots of dull liquid silver standing over it. A gawky apprentice was melting down a mayoral chain, feeding it link by link into a pot.

'So hard to get raw materials these days. With all the new rules and regulations. But we muddle through, Mr B, oh yes we do. In our own way.'

Silver bullets cooled on a bench, like scones on a baker's tray.

'A commission from the Palace,' Fox Malleson said, with pride. He picked up a bullet between thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers all had hard burn-calluses. 'For the Prince Consort's Carpathian Guard.'

Beauregard wondered how nosferatu soldiers loaded their pistols. Either they had warm orderlies or thick leather gloves.

'Actually, silver's not much good for bullets. Too soft. You get the best effect with a core of lead. Silver-jackets, they're called. Burst in the wound. That'd polish off anyone, un-dead or not. Very nasty.'

'A costly weapon, surely?' he asked.

'Indeed so, Mr B. This is the Reid design. An American gentleman, Reid said bullets should be costly. A reminder that life is a currency not to be spent freely.'

'An admirable thought. Surprising from an American.'

Fox Malleson was reputedly the finest silversmith in London. For a time, his profession completely outlawed, he had been confined in Pentonville. But expedience prevailed. Power is based, at bottom, on the ability to kill; thus the means of killing have to be available, even if only to a select few.

'Look at the workmanship,' Fox Malleson said, holding up a crucifix. Even without its jewels, the craft was evident in the sculpting of the figure of Christ. 'You can see the suffering in the lines of the limbs.'

Beauregard examined it. A few truly feared the cross  -  the Prince Consort included, apparently  -  but most vampires were indifferent to religious artefacts. Some murgatroyds made a point of flaunting their immunity by wearing ivory crucifixes as earrings.

'Popish silliness, of course,' Fox Malleson said, a touch sadly. He passed the crucifix to his apprentice for the pot. 'Still, I miss artistry sometimes. Bullets and blades are all very well but they're just function. No form to speak of.'

Beauregard was unsure. The rows of bullets, like ranks of soldiers in pointed helmets, were shining and pleasing objects.

'That's why a commission such as yours is such a pleasure, Mr B. Such a pleasure.'

Fox Malleson took a long, thin bundle from a rack. It was wrapped in coarse cloth and tied up with string. The silversmith handled it as if it were Excalibur, and he the knight charged with it until the time Arthur should return.

'Would you care to examine?'

Beauregard loosed the strings and slipped away the cloth. His sword-cane had been polished and refinished. The wood shone, black with a red undertone.

'Lovely to see such work, Mr B. The original manufacturer was an artist.'

Beauregard pressed the catch and drew the sword. He laid down the sheathing wood and held up the blade, turning his wrist so it caught the red light from the embers. It sparkled and flashed and danced.

The weight was unchanged, the balance perfect. It felt as light as a willow switch, but a flick of the wrist was translated into a powerful slice. Beauregard cut at the air, smiling at the whistle.

'Beautiful,' he commented.

'Oh yes, Mr B, beautiful. Like a fine lady, beautiful and sharp.'

He laid his thumb against the cold flat of the blade, and felt the smoothness.

'I ask a favour of you,' the silversmith said, 'don't use it for chopping sausage.'

Beauregard laughed. 'You have my word, Fox Malleson.'

He took the cane, and with a click sheathed the silver-coated sword. He would feel safer in Whitechapel, knowing he could defend himself against anyone.

'Now, Mr B, you must sign the Poisons Book.'